Mississi, Mozambique

By coincidence the road we had chosen to travel had been labelled the most scenic stretch in the whole of Mozambique. It soon became evident why - giant granite monoliths rose from the lush plantation forest, their magnificence emphasised by the rainstorms and rainbows scattered across the horizon.The road was rough, but not impassable. Potholed dusty dirt track alternating with rutted mud and bone jarring corrugations, we travelled in convoy and choked on the dust from the car in front. It was slow going and uncomfortable but less challenging than the coast road we had travelled to Tandanhangui. Difficult but not nearly as bad the guidebook had made out, perhaps it had improved since the book was written, but with some careful execution a 4wd would not even have been necessary.The trip was thankfully uneventful, apart from snug but somewhat uncomfortable ride after picking up a hitchhiker. We were stopped for lunch when a poor man carrying a 30+kg sack of onions on his back passed and asked us for a lift 20km the way we were headed. We figured having been on the receiving end of the Mozambican peoples generosity and hospitality for the last month, it was only fair to try and help some of them in return. We arrived at Cuamba, our original stopping point earlier than expected. It had perhaps been 8hrs but there was plenty of light left and Cuamba was an unexciting looking place so we decided to push on to a campsite that was logged in the GPS maps but not in our guidebooks. 80kms away and halfway to the border, it was the only accommodation option before crossing the border into Malawi.The sun was low in the sky as we passed through maize and tobacco crops and scattered villages. We arrived at the GPS point to find nothing. There was simply a few grass huts and the odd villager returning along the side of the dirt road from a day in the fields. We drove a few hundred metres wondering if we had somehow missed it, and then returned along the same stretch, "surely we couldn't have passed it". We asked some locals, but they seemed more baffled than we were, maybe it was just my Portuguese that had them stumped, but after a while it became fairly obvious there was no campsite. By now a crowd had gathered with all the excitement of two vehicles and 6 mzungus (white folk). We were told to try the next town, only 8kms away but probably the furthest some of these people had ever been. We had no choice really, and so we pushed on.We arrived at Mississi, the supposed town, but really just a slightly larger village. They did have 3 or 4 stalls though, but it was blaringly obvious there was no accommodation here either. After some more disjointed discussion, the best we could come up with was to engage the local policeman and hope that they would let us camp in the village. Not surprisingly nobody spoke English……… except apparently for one teacher who was away at the time. We were told there was a police station and asked a boy to take us there, but it was nothing more that a thatched roof over the dirt, partially enclosed by a bamboo wall. The sun was setting and there was no-one to be found in the "police station" so we asked someone to fetch him from his house for us. By now a big crowd had gathered, mainly children but adults aswell, I guess they didn't get a whole heap of foreigners turning up in their village very often. We spoke to the elderly policeman, but I think he spoke little Portuguese, another teacher turned up looking quite the part (he had glasses which was a rarity), a seemingly educated teenager whose father was the local minister for agriculture (he was decked out head to toe in what looked like a green and gold basketball uniform with FBI printed on it), and then the minister himself. We had the majority of the towns leaders present and through hand gestures, broken Portuguese and a little luck our point was made - we wanted to camp. After some to-ing and fro-ing the chief was consulted with our predicament. We did not see the chief, and even the locals seemed a little apprehensive about how to approach him and in what order things should be done, I am sure this was first time anything like this had happened in the village - but they assured us it would be no problem. They asked to see our documents (passports), and once the chief had given us the ok, they took them and wrote down our names and numbers. It is perhaps not until you are here that this becomes so humorous - a police station with nothing but a wooden bench seat, not even a desk, a village full of grass huts, I was surprised they even had a pen and I'm sure the "paper" would have been an old scrap of carton or something. What they would do with our details after we left I don't know, I'm sure they were just trying to look official.We were told we could set up camp adjacent the police station in front of the minister's empty office. It was a small concrete building but for this part of the world it was quite a construction.As night fell we set up camp and were told we would be safe and secure - we had never thought otherwise, but soon after the policeman came riding back on his rusty old bicycle, proud as ever and sporting a crisp clean police uniform, hat and all. I guess he was told by the chief to look after us, but even though he was headed home for bed, he wasn't going to miss this big opportunity to don his best clobber. He shooed the curious children away, throwing big sticks at them and telling them to go home - they eventually did.It had been another long day, perhaps 11hrs on the road and it was now time to relax. We were all filthy, covered in dust and sweat, and longing for a shower - but there would be none tonight. We even had to ask our FBI friend if we could borrow his toilet - a drop-hole in the middle of the back yard, infested with flies that made Karen scream as they all took off as she squatted down.We started building a fire to cook our dinner, but the ground was wet and it had started to rain again so our FBI friend (his name escapes me) and the police officer indicated for us to relocate to the shelter of the police station. Inside they built us a fire, and later a fantastic contraption to rest our grills. It was hilarious to watch as they pulled apart the police stations bamboo walls to construct it.When the policeman asked me for a beer, I figured it was the least I could do - I guess drinking on the job wasn't such an issue here. We slept safe and sound that night, knowing our policeman friend was sleeping on the concrete floor next to us.We awoke early with the frogs croaking and the roosters crowing, but we had never intended on a late start anyway and so we packed up and departed. We had quite the send-off, with half the village coming witness it, and we were extremely grateful for the Mozambican hospitality once more.We journeyed to the border, and against all recommendations turned up looking tired and scrappy. Like all borders nothing moved too quickly, but things went smoothly and we had departed Mozambique with a day to spare. We had thoroughly enjoyed our time in Moz, much more so that we had expected. Despite years of fighting and hardship, and the fact these people literally have nothing, they were so friendly and welcoming. The wet season had been good to us too, and despite flooding throughout the nation we had managed to avoid any decent rain but for a few drive days. For those thinking of ever visiting Moz, I would thoroughly recommend it. Its rugged, untamed, unpredictable, difficult at times, and anything but luxurious - but most importantly it is thoroughly enjoyable.